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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25134754">Connect The Dots</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/verboseDescription/pseuds/verboseDescription'>verboseDescription</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>To The Moon and Back [4]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, The Spiral, if i wrote about michael dying i have to write helen killing him, its equality, unfortunately because of who i am as a person gerry is here as well, unreality</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 10:48:32</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,188</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25134754</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/verboseDescription/pseuds/verboseDescription</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Houses, Helen knew, were always a lie.<br/>But when the Distortion whispers to her, it feels like freedom.</p><p>A story about Helen, and the creature she becomes.<br/>Companion piece to Choose Your Own Adventure</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>To The Moon and Back [4]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1715521</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>36</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>122</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Connect The Dots</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There are those who think houses cannot speak, but Helen knows they are wrong.</p><p>Your house greets you every time you ring your doorbell. Your house hums with an electric <em> good morning, </em>when you turn on your lights. Your floorboards creak with laughter in rhythm with your footsteps.</p><p>Your house is talking to you. Can you hear it? </p><p>The Distortion is not yet her home, but it speaks.</p><p>The floorboards have been whispering in her ear. They tell her the house is sick. They tell her that there are renovations to be done. They tell her that this decor has been forced upon them, and they do not like it, have never liked it, but the architect who did this to them is long gone and they cannot solve this problem on their own.</p><p>Helen promises to be a change of scenery.</p><p>The first to go, she thinks, will be the infection known as Michael Shelley.</p><p>His presence has torn the wallpaper. His remains have colored it a rotting green. What’s left of his heart cries as she begins to tear him down.</p><p>“You must understand,” it whispers. “I never asked for this.”</p><p>And she had? Helen laughs with such force her head topples to the ground. </p><p>When she picks herself back up, she’s in a different room, and there’s no heart to be seen. All there is is fractals, and the windows slowly infecting the Distortion.</p><p>Helen sighs and rolls up the sleeves she does not have.</p><p>There is still work to be done.</p><p>
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</p><p>When Helen gives her statement, she tells Jon that something about the neighborhood she went to felt <em> sinister. </em>The trees seemed too dark, the other houses too empty and gated.</p><p>“But not really, of course,” Helen adds. “That’s just me, looking back on it now. At the time, I don’t think I felt anything except annoyance that I was going to be two minutes late to the viewing.”</p><p>But the lie makes it easier. Makes her believe that she can save herself by refusing to return. As if the house was the thing that was haunted, and not her.</p><p>The truth is that the Distortion had been watching Helen for some time.</p><p>The truth is that she had never left its sight.</p><p>
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</p><p>The Distortion whispers to her. It tells her she must understand her enemy to defeat it. It says there are doorways within every mind and there are keys to every door. It tells her that it contains multitudes but it can only contain so many human thoughts. It tells her that no matter what else happens, someone must be absorbed. It tells her that this will not end without her unaltered. </p><p>Helen does not tell it she can handle whatever it throws her way. There is no other option.</p><p>Either she will bend and break, or she will twist herself into something that can survive.</p><p> </p><p>A door opens, briefly, and Helen sees— </p><p>
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</p><p>There is a woman who works with Helen.</p><p>Lacey.</p><p>Helen goes to a house with her to assess the property. There’s a guest room that might need to be refurbished. A kitchen that would look much better in a different shade.</p><p>A few minutes later, Lacey calls Helen, embarrassed and lost.</p><p>“I know we said we’d meet back up in the kitchen,” Lacey says. “But everything here just looks so similar I can’t remember which way I’m supposed to go. I’m next to the—” </p><p>“Left,” Helen interrupts confidently. “There’ll be a staircase at the end of the hall.”</p><p>Lacey laughs.</p><p>“You really memorized those floorplans, didn’t you?” she teases.</p><p>“Easier than trying to navigate by using the decor,” Helen replies with a snort. “Every house I’ve been to this week has the same damn painting repeated a thousand times. There’s a house down the street with almost the exact same hallway, but <em>it </em>has a staircase on the right. It’s just easier to navigate when you’re looking at the bigger picture.”</p><p>“Well, I can guarantee you you’re not going to forget this hallway,” Lacey giggles. “Oh, Helen, these stairs look downright <em>awful. </em>Have you seen this banister?”</p><p>Helen groans.</p><p>“Don’t tell me,” she begs. “I’ll see it soon enough. G-d, the things some people do to their homes.”</p><p>
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</p><p>It’s hard, Helen thinks, to sell a house without having lived in it. But by the end of every viewing, Helen knows the home almost better than her own. Any cabinet you’ve walked passed a hundred times may as well be the cabinet in your own kitchen. Eventually, it becomes something past familiar. It becomes something with memories.</p><p>Yes, this is a cabinet, but look at how much space it has! Look at this beautiful wood!</p><p>Yes, this is a cabinet, but think how lovely it’ll look filled with your child’s favorite snack! Think of how many snacks you could hide behind a row of spices—everyone has a cheat day, am I right, ladies?</p><p>But, no, this is a cabinet, and all it is now is a place to hide as the Distortion prowls its hallways. You are only the food stuck between its teeth. You are indigestion, a stomach refusing to settle. If it finds you, it will kill you.</p><p>The world has never been so simple that you could understand it all at a glance.</p><p>
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</p><p>The door named Michael wants revenge. The one who shoved it into existence is no longer, but there are echoes of everything. Circles and circles.</p><p>One day, the Archivist will enter through its doors and unravel and ravel until there is nothing left but a pair of eyes that Michael will wear around its neck as a trophy.</p><p>(But that’s not right, Helen thinks. These hallways are not quite a spiral. There are two options, after all, two directions to travel towards. One of them may wind you into a circle but you could always, always walk forward.)</p><p>
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</p><p>“I will tell you my story,” Michael tells the Archivist. “I would like you to understand.”</p><p>A door appears in front of Helen. Someone besides Michael gives a derisive snort. The door vanishes.</p><p>“Save the dramatics for <em>after </em>the rescue,” says a face Helen does not know. His hair is dyed. Helen can see the brown hidden underneath. “You doing okay, mate?”</p><p>Jon, newly freed from his ropes, stumbles into his arms.</p><p>“You’re not going—this is a rescue?” he asks. </p><p>“Of course it is,” the stranger says. He gives the Archivist an awkward pat on the back. “Let’s get you home, yeah?”</p><p>
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</p><p><em> Home </em>is a complicated subject for Helen.</p><p>Though she sells them, she hates the aesthetic of the rich houses that always attract bankers and executives and every wealthy couple looking to start a family. No matter how much they buy, Helen knows their homes will be empty. Just another gated land with an almost-pleasing garden. A home with a swimming pool they’ll always <em>say </em>they’ll use, but never get around to. And yet, they’ll fill it every year, wasting money with upkeep, wasting water. Wasting time, committing to the aesthetic of a comfort they do not want or care for.</p><p>But the house will be long since sold by then. And if they have complaints, Helen won’t be around to hear them.</p><p>Helen loved selling houses—but not to them. </p><p>She took pride in her ability to successfully tour a house, even when she had only a few hours actually to familiarize herself with the land. She loved seeing heads nod in agreement with her words. She loved knowing she’d impacted such an important decision in someone’s life. But selling a house for Wolverton Kendrick? It was just <em>too easy. </em>Everyone was too willing to settle for something that was a near-mirror of all the other houses in the same price bracket.</p><p>The truth is, Helen would have loved a chance to try and sell the Distortion. She hadn’t had a challenge like that in a long time.</p><p>
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</p><p>There is a new wanderer in the hallways.</p><p>“Who are you?” Helen asks. The wanderer crumples at the thought of an identity.</p><p>“I don’t know,” they sob. “I don’t—I don’t know who I am, I don’t know <em> where </em>I am—”</p><p>Helen stares at them. She does not believe she has ever been so desperate to be known. She doubts these feelings will serve them well.</p><p>“Where do I go?” the wanderer asks. They do not understand that there is nowhere <em>to </em>go. That it’s not about the destination, it’s about the journey, and the journey is about avoiding the hungry creature that makes the hallways its home.</p><p>(Helen is getting hungry as well. How long has it been since her last meal. Days? Weeks? Years? There is nothing to eat, not here. All that exists are fractals and wanderers. All that exists—)</p><p>Wordlessly, Helen points. Her victim follows without question.</p><p>
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</p><p>The Distortion loves her. She sinks deeper and deeper into its stomach only to be burned by the acid she wades in. Helen feels no pain. Helen has no body to feel pain with. After years of wandering, she is more of the suggestion of a woman than a body of flesh.</p><p>The same cannot be said for the other wanderer, the one who cries as the almost-flesh shape of something barely resembling a person finishes its meal.</p><p>Helen holds her breath and dives deeper into the flooded basement she’s found herself in.</p><p>Michael does not follow.</p><p>Fractals light the path beneath her. </p><p>
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</p><p>Helen worries about the strength of her body. She worries about the length of her hands. One of the more obvious signs of Marfan Syndrome. Everyone was always telling her that her heart would give out one day. That her body was a prison that one day she’d have no choice but to break out of.</p><p>Except that isn’t Helen’s life.</p><p>It’s Michael’s.</p><p>(Helen had always been rather athletic, actually. She’d played rugby in secondary school, though she’d always wanted to try her hand at something a bit different. Gymnastics, maybe. But the Distortion cradles her head and tells her that the only truth that exists is the one that’s spoken aloud, and so when Helen declares memories high beams and graceful forms <em> real, </em>that’s exactly what they are.)</p><p>
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</p><p>There are new wanderers in the hallways.</p><p>She does not remember their names. She does not remember the concept of names. But she had met the men who passed her, once before. She had entered their house. No. Their place of business. </p><p>“Tim,” a man says.</p><p>Ah, yes. Helen remembers. She had been shaking when she entered the Magnus Institute. One of them had given her tea. The other, a piece of paper and a pencil. They had helped her.</p><p>The one named Tim turns to see her, face painted with fear and confusion, and Helen is filled with an incredible urge to reassure them both. </p><p>“All buildings must have an emergency exit,” Helen says. “But they aren’t always marked on the map.”</p><p>
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</p><p>The truth of the matter is that Helen Richardson could have been anyone. She was chosen by the Distortion because it wanted to see what she would do. It did not expect her to replace anyone. It only hoped that her knowledge would one day belong to it.</p><p>The truth of the matter is that Helen would have always found a home in the Spiral. She had spent her life learning how to lie. The truth of the matter is that Helen has always been a matter of perception. She wears a pantsuit to work because she finds that people trust her more in them. She keeps her hair braided back because some find her curly hair “unprofessional” when she wears it loose. Helen wears glasses, though she’s never needed them. But they look good on her, don’t they? Make her look smart? Yes. She knows.</p><p>Did you know that blue is a calming color? Helen knew. That’s why the house she chose for you has blue bedrooms. Wasn’t it pretty? Won’t it be nice to relax in your room after a hard day at work?</p><p>Yes, Helen thinks so too.</p><p>So why don’t you just open the door and come inside?</p><p>
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</p><p> </p><p>“You didn’t take the door,” the skull of Michael Shelley says. Hours ago, Helen had found him on a nearby shelf and now carries him with her in her purse.</p><p>“There will be another door,” Helen says. “You won’t be able to help yourself. And I’m not quite finished yet.”</p><p>“You didn’t take the door,” the skull repeats. “And now you’ll have to kill me.”</p><p>The stomach Helen no longer has clenches at the thought. Michael is already dead, yes, but he is also the only company she’s had in a long time. Helen does not think she can kill someone she knows so well.</p><p>“There will be another door,” she insists. “I’m not going to hurt you.”</p><p>“If you don’t hurt anyone, you’ll starve,” the skull says. “It doesn’t matter to me, of course. I’m already dead.”</p><p>“And it would be cruel to kill you twice,” Helen tells it.</p><p>
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</p><p>Gerry asks her to watch Absynthe for him.</p><p>“I’m going on a stakeout,” he says with a grin. Helen can’t help but smile at how eager he is. “With Tim. He wants to look into a place. Thinks it might be the place where the Unknowing will finally happen. You remember how many times a snake needs to eat, right?”</p><p>“Of course I do,” Michael says. “I care about this creature as well, Delano. I won’t let you down.”</p><p>“Cool,” Gerry says. “Might be gone for a while. You can still stop by, probably, but be <em>careful. </em>I won’t forgive you if one of those clowns sees us because of you.”</p><p>“I would never betray you to clowns,” Michael says. It’s serious, but the tone suggests otherwise. Gerry doesn’t seem too bothered. He knows Michael, after all. He knows that it still cares.</p><p>Oh.</p><p>He knows Michael.</p><p>
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</p><p>“There’s another door,” the eyes of Michael Shelley say. Years ago, Helen had found them inside one of the hallway lamps. She’s been wearing them as earrings ever since.</p><p>“Almost,” Helen says. The spirals in the air have pushed her hair out of its braid and have woven themselves into the curls. She’s getting to be less herself and more something else. Helen can hardly remember the direction that time should flow. Can’t find it in herself to mourn the no doubt countless plans she’s missed out on—birthday parties, dates, after-work drinks. All of Helen’s friends no doubt have already assumed the worst. So why would Helen take the door when there’s nothing waiting for her on the other side? Why pretend that she’s not exactly where she’s meant to be?</p><p>
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</p><p>The Distortion tells Helen a story.</p><p>In the beginning, it says, it was only a door that led to nowhere. </p><p>No feelings, no desires. It was just a thing. A handle that could be pulled. A reminder of the unknown.</p><p>And then one day, a child wandered through. And as that child wandered deeper, digesting itself into more of an idea than a person, the Distortion began to feel.</p><p>Nothing much, of course. The Distortion did not become the child. But now, it knew how to be curious like one. And it understood fun.</p><p>The Distortion had a great deal of fun feeding on humans. Years passed. Centuries, maybe. It wasn’t keeping track. But what it did know was that none of its meals had affected it quite as the child had. </p><p>Until one day, it ate a man.</p><p>The man was cruel. So cruel, that his town celebrated his absence. And as that man slammed against the walls of its hallways, the Distortion became cruel. It caused rifts between families and scared children. It frightened parents. </p><p>It had <em>so much fun. </em></p><p>And so Distortion grew. As it did, gaining more and more awareness. One could say it almost even formed a personality. It was not any of the people it had eaten, of course. Were you every vegetable you ate? No, you were not, no matter what your parents might have said about being <em>what you eat. </em>The truth of the matter is that some people are simply more memorable than others, even in death. There are echoes left behind. And then one day—</p><p>One day, there is someone new in its halls. He is not a wanderer, but an <em>explorer. </em> And this explorer—this <em>insignificant human— </em> finds a way to avoid being eaten. He finds a way to merge himself with the floorboards. To run his blood through the walls where pipes could have been. To repaint the ceiling with his memories. And oh, does it <em>hurt. </em> The Distortion has existed for eons, and yet it had never felt a pain like this before. Not from itself. Not from its wanderers. And yet one man, one explorer, guided by a map he did not understand, ruined <em>everything. </em></p><p>Michael Shelley had not hesitated. His path was clear. He had not been interested in the scenery, but instead, finding a way to hide himself in its heart and become an arrhythmia. </p><p>Helen is not Michael. She would not be able to leave so many rooms unexplored. You cannot sell a house that you don’t have an opinion on. Cannot renovate one wall without considering what will happen to its twin, cannot replace a sink without considering its plumbing. </p><p>If Helen wants to build a home, she first has to understand it. And so, she will walk through every inch of these distorted halls.</p><p>
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</p><p>“But why?” Michael Shelley’s hair asks. It’s working as a curtain in one of the halls. Helen knits it into a scarf to wear around her neck. “What about this looks like a <em> home?” </em></p><p>“Is it so hard to believe I would want to remake myself?” Helen asks. “That I could find comfort in rebirth?”</p><p>The Distortion tells her that the truth is all she makes of it, and Helen chooses to believe the truth that she was happy. Helen chooses to believe that her parents loved her. Helen chooses to believe that they never forgot her birthday, or her name, chooses to believe that she has encountered nothing but kindness instead of the harsh reality that has made her who she is today. Helen chooses to believe that this is all her choice. Wants to believe that she is the chosen traveler, the only wanderer who has truly understood the beauty of the house she finds herself in. The truth of the matter is that Helen is trapped, and the Distortion cannot love her, because the Distortion cannot love. The truth of the matter is that the only kindness Helen receives are the lies she continues to tell herself. </p><p>But the truth is such an ugly little thing. And Helen would much rather believe herself to be a lion than the meat tossed into its cage.</p><p>The eyes of Michael Shelley roll themselves.</p><p>“There is no room for fairy tales here,” they say, not unkindly. “You will have to kill us one day.”</p><p>Helen says nothing. She cannot accuse something of being a liar for telling the only real truth that exists within these walls.</p><p>
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</p><p>Helen Richardson became a real estate agent for many reasons. One of them being her love of a well-furnished home. Or, her love of the <em>idea </em>of one, anyways.</p><p>Decor always said so much about a person. So much about a family. </p><p>Helen’s childhood home, for example, screamed with a desire to be seen as <em>normal. </em>A stylish rug here, and they wouldn’t look like a family that screamed at their daughter. A throw pillow there, and no one will call the police with a noise complaint. Put a welcome mat at the front door, and suddenly you were getting invitations to a neighborhood potluck.</p><p>Houses, Helen knew, were always a lie.</p><p>But when the Distortion whispers to her, it feels like freedom.</p><p>
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</p><p>The truth of the matter is that Helen sees Michael Shelley everywhere she walks. There are many ways she could destroy him, but she has wandered past the need for revenge. The truth of the matter is that she cannot imagine hurting the Michael Shelley that sits next to her on a porch swing. And if she cannot kill him in a way that will be a mercy, then he will not die. </p><p>Helen walks beside Michael in the cold winter of Sannikova. Her feet leave no marks in the snow.</p><p>When Michael sees the Distortion, Helen feels his first thought of not fear, but <em>anger. </em>Anger that he had been right, that it had been real, and yet he had convinced himself his friend’s death had been nothing but a dream.</p><p>Gertrude hands him a map. Michael makes a choice.</p><p>The door opens.</p><p>Helen walks with him.</p><p>
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</p><p>“I wish Eric told me where he lived,” an echo of Michael Shelley says as he enjoys a breeze that does not exist. “I never met his wife, but she didn’t sound like the kindest of women. Is that rude? I don’t want to be rude. I just want to know he’s <em>safe. </em>I can’t stand the idea of being too late, not again.”</p><p>“I don’t think it’s rude,” Helen says. She’s enjoying a bowl of ice cream. Peanut butter. The last time Helen had any peanut butter, she had an allergic reaction so terrible she’d needed A&amp;E. The last time Michael had any peanut butter was in his favorite ice cream. It’s delicious.</p><p>“It’s just,” Michael frowns. He’s young. He died much older than this, Helen knows. Died much more bitter. Helen can relate to that. Whatever vitriol the dead Michael Shelley might have felt, Helen would have found it much more comfortable than the wide, doe eyes she is receiving now. “I came to the Magnus Institute to <em> help, </em>you know? And if I can’t even help the people around me, then what was the point? Gertrude won’t even drink my tea.”</p><p>“Does that make it all worth it, then?” Helen asks idly. She taps her spoon to her bowl. “If you helped someone, then nothing else matters?”</p><p>Michael looks at Helen. She sees his age on him now. So many tangles and dark circles. So many split ends. His nails are bitten short. A bad habit, that.</p><p>“I knew Gertrude was leading me to my death,” he says. “I didn’t care. It hurt me, and I wanted to hurt it back.”</p><p>The intensity of his gaze strengthens. There are spirals in his eyes now. The truth is, the only Michael that exists is the one trying to eat her, just as the only Helen that exists is trying to skin him alive. But it’s an ugly truth, and Helen refuses to look it in the eyes.</p><p>“Will you kill me now?” Michael asks. There is no anger in his voice. No fear. His tone is pleasant. Conversational. “I’m sure you know the way. Would you like to draw me a map?”</p><p>“I don’t want to kill you,” Helen says. Michael snorts.</p><p>“If that’s the truth, then you’d be the first,” he says.</p><p> </p><p>The truth of the matter is that Helen never meets Michael Shelley. The truth of the matter is that Michael Shelley is a dead body rotting in the halls, leaving a scent of decay so powerful it may never leave the Distortion. </p><p>“The Archivist betrayed me.” the voice leaves the corpse in a steady hiss of rising steam. “We have to kill it.”</p><p>“The Archivist is my friend,” Helen says. “You betrayed me. I should kill you.”</p><p>The corpse of Michael Shelley does not move, and yet it turns to look at her. Its eyes are empty sockets, dripping with some kind of fluid that glitters like stardust and changes color with the newly tiled floor.</p><p>“Death,” the corpse says, “would be a mercy.”</p><p>But the truth is that Helen is not a murderer. She is just a woman without a death wish.</p><p>There is a knife in her purse that didn’t exist moments ago. As Helen raises it, a door opens. And through the door, Helen hears Jon’s voice. Helen grips the knife tighter. If Michael has hurt him—</p><p>But Michael doesn’t. Because Gerry— </p><p>(Gerard, Delano, Keay, Bookburner, Monsterhunter, Friend, Child, The One Who Sees Me, The One Who <em> Saves Jon) </em></p><p>Gerry (Friend) elbows Michael in the ribs as he walks Jonathan Sims through the Distortion. He does not see Helen, but one of his many eyes wink at her.</p><p>“He’s innocent in all of this,” Gerry (Monsterhunter) says. “I hate Gertrude as much as you, but hurting him’s not going to make anything better. Save your revenge for someone who matters. Like Elias.”</p><p>“We cannot hurt Elias,” Michael huffs.</p><p>“Not with that attitude we can’t,” Gerry (Bookburner) says.</p><p>Helen drops the knife.</p><p>“Just because you’re angry doesn’t give you the right to start taking it out on someone else,” he says.</p><p>And just like that, they’re gone, and Helen is free to wander the halls alone.</p><p>
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</p><p>“I stole your life from you,” Michael tells Helen.  “One act of mercy doesn’t change that.”</p><p>Helen shrugs. Jon had been the last human kindness she’d been granted. Helen doesn’t think she can be blamed for wanting him to remain. Yes, Michael would have killed him, had he the chance, but he hadn’t. Wasn’t that cause for a little positive reinforcement?</p><p>Helen pulls a container of strawberries from the fridge. There’s a recipe for cake on the door. Gluten-free. Outside the kitchen window, Helen sees herself talking to Michael on a porch swing.</p><p>“I don’t think you can say you’ve stolen anything from me yet,” Helen says. “My heart’s still beating, isn’t it?”</p><p>“It’s not,” Michael says. He shakes his head fondly, as if they’re old friends and this is an old joke. “That’s alright. Mine doesn’t, either.”</p><p>Helen offers him a strawberry. He doesn’t take it, so Helen eats it, stem and all.</p><p>“Why did you let me go?” Helen asks. “You weren’t in one of the mirrors. You let me escape.”</p><p>“That wasn’t kindness,” Michael tells her. “You saw the exact same me all the other wanderers did. But you’re the first to notice my absence.”</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>Michael shrugs.</p><p>“A bad habit of playing with my food?” he suggests. “I don’t know why, but it always seems to mean more when someone finds their way back.”</p><p>“It scared me,” Helen says.</p><p>“Yes,” Michael says. “I intended it to.”</p><p>“But I survived,” Helen says.</p><p>“Yes,” Michael agrees. “You did. I hadn’t planned for that. I think all this twisting has just made you more yourself. I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but that’s not normally how this goes.”</p><p>Helen considers this.</p><p>“I don’t think you’re a good person,” she says. “But I’m not you.”</p><p>”And you think you’ll be good? You think you can be?” Michael laughs. There’s a measuring cup that sits waiting on the counter. It clatters to the floor as Michael takes its place, kicking his heels into a cupboard beneath him. “Do you really think you can maintain enough of an identity to proclaim us separate?”</p><p>“I don’t know,” Helen admits. “Maybe I can’t. Maybe I won’t. But right now, all I want to become more than a thing that swallows others whole.”</p><p>Michael’s lower lip trembles. His anger fades.</p><p>“It is a bit of an exhausting thing to be,” he agrees.</p><p>
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</p><p>Outside, in a world that is slightly more real, the Distortion feeds a snake a live rat. It coos at her. Absynthe does not belong to it. Nothing does. But it’s nice, isn’t it? To have a friend who trusts you enough that he’d let you into his house willingly. That he’s asked you to feed his most beloved friend.</p><p>Absynthe is not afraid of Michael. She doesn’t know how to be. When she tastes the air, she sees nothing and finds no danger. All she knows is that something has granted her a meal and for that, she is grateful.</p><p>
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</p><p>There is a pool in the backyard.</p><p>“Am I drowning?” Michael asks. He’s floating on his back, wearing a bathing suit Helen owned as a teenager.</p><p>“You’ve already drowned,” Helen says gently.</p><p>“Oh,” Michael says. “Do you know what’s killed me this time?”</p><p>There is a door on the diving board. It has the same scratch the wood as the door to Helen’s old flat, one she put there as she drunkenly stumbled with her keys after a night out.</p><p>“I think,” Helen says. “You were always too honest to survive in here.”</p><p>“Well,” Michael says. “That’s fine. Just as long as you’ve learned from my mistakes.”</p><p> </p><p>In a world more real, Michael clutches its chest. There hasn’t been a heart inside for some time, but old habits die hard. It’s getting distracted. Absynthe’s water needs to be cleaned. Such a human trait, to worry about a pet while feeling ill. It could kill the snake, and never think about any of this again. But it had promised, hadn’t it? To be good?</p><p>There was something so strange about that.</p><p>Being good was not in its nature, and yet it was still trusted. And yet the snake still needed him.</p><p>Michael feeds the snake and refills her water. Double checks the latch on the cage, making sure it is secured once again. </p><p>There is nothing left for him but to return home.</p><p>
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</p><p>“I know it won’t last,” Helen says. “But I think I would like to die a good person.”</p><p>“What’s that?” Michael asks. He’s still underwater. </p><p>Helen points towards the door balancing on the diving board.</p><p>“It’s for you,” she says. And because she’s said it, it’s the truth. Michael frowns.</p><p>“But there’s still something I need to do,” he says.</p><p>“It’s the exit,” Helen says kindly. “You’ve been looking for so long.”</p><p>Michael swims out of the pool. He hesitates.</p><p>“It’s alright, Michael,” Helen insists. “I’ll take care of your house for you. I know how much it means to you.”</p><p>Michael laughs at that.</p><p>“It is my dream home, after all,” he jokes. He walks towards the diving board, but the worry hasn’t left his face. “Will I really be alright?”</p><p>“Of course,” Helen lies. She doesn’t bat an eye. “All you need to do is open the door.”</p><p>
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</p><p>Michael Shelley stands in front of the door and reaches out his hand, and— </p><p>
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</p><p>A creature named Michael turns the handle, and— </p><p>
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</p><p>And he steps through and is no more.</p><p>
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</p><p>The Distortion enters the world as all monsters do; with the death of someone a bit more human than herself. She chooses not to feel any guilt from this. She chooses to believe that she will never be as foolish as him, that she will never care enough about anything to lose herself, will never poison herself with the desire to be known.</p><p>And because Helen says it, it must be true.</p><p>
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</p><p>(The skull of Michael Shelley remains tucked away in her purse.</p><p>There are echoes of everything, after all.</p><p>Circles and circles.)</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I'm sorry I didn't write Helen physically killing Michael. When I was first writing this, I assumed she'd end up smashing his brains in. I guess that's what makes this an au.<br/>For the record, I do believe canon Helen did super kill Michael. She knew that he was hurting Jon and got mad and ran out a bit too soon. This Helen just very gently shoved him out of the way. She had more time to grow as a monster and decided that she'd have a lot of time for petty revenge later.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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